


Them's the brakes

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2020 [26]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Caning, Cults, Day 26, Fainting, Food Deprivation, Medical Care, Not Patty friendly, Stoic Whumpees, Switching, Vomiting, Water Deprivation, Whumptober 2020, alternate prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Mac and Jack infiltrate a cult but exfil doesn't come when it's needed.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947493
Comments: 24
Kudos: 45
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Them's the brakes

**Author's Note:**

> A hearty thanks to the lovely [NatalieRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatalieRyan/pseuds/NatalieRyan) for a quick and dirty beta. She helped me out with like 30 seconds of warning. <3
> 
> If you read the first version of this, you have my apologies.

Compulsory “listen to the cult leader” hour is a great time to rifle through sensitive paperwork in secured offices if you’re a special operative in trying to track down a money launderer and arms dealer that disguises his business as a religious organization. 

The downside to this plan is the “compulsory” part where they’re not at said cult leader’s prerecorded hour-long indoctrination sermon. It’s not so much that they get caught — heck they even manage to get the info back to DXS before the sermon is over — it’s the part where everyone is acutely aware of their absence. Mac and Jack realize this error when they find themselves surrounded by a group of elders

“You missed the Light Immersion this morning, acolytes,” declares one of the men. “You must answer to the senior cleric for your absence.”

Mac and Jack exchange glances but the reality of the situation is that they’re not fighting their way out of this one. These people are agricultural laborers and tradespeople. They’re strong and fit and have the endurance to best most grunts straight out of bootcamp. That, and there are twelve of them.

“Lead the way,” Jack says.

*****

Apparently, answering to the senior cleric means answering to a tribunal of elders who speak for the senior cleric. Mac isn’t sure if this is because the senior cleric isn’t currently in the compound, something that would be supported by their intel, or because things such as the discipline of the acolytes is too menial for his time.

Either way, Mac and Jack find themselves kneeling, hands behind their backs while the tribunal speaks. There’s no testimony, no questions asked, nothing but a sermon on transgressing the rules of the Teachings. What exactly those transgressions are is never mentioned but Mac assumes it’s something to do with the “divine harmony” that the cult purports to create throughout the world by selling their sacred objects on Etsy. 

Their intel had contained murmurings of violent suppression of thought and disobedience, but after being immersed in the cult for over a week, Mac hasn’t seen or heard a single thing to corroborate that. The cult is what Jack had called “woo-woo” and Mac honestly feels that, aside from being a front for illegal operations, they’re pretty much harmless.

The head of the tribunal rings a small bell. “The sentence is decided. Tomorrow you will begin the purification ritual. Once you are free from your mortal impurities, you will bring yourselves, willingly, as an offering to the assembly.”

The tribunal rises and leaves while Mac and Jack are left in confusion. Jack tries to call out, to ask what in the hell that means, but he’s ignored. Once the council has left, another acolyte helps them to standing and then motions for them to follow along. They walk silently to their rooms where they are instructed to stay — kneeling with their hands behind their backs in penance — for the time being.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Jack stands up. “I ain’t kneeling on these bumpy ass tile floors for who knows how long with my knees. I’m calling Patty for exfil. We got the info she wanted. Let’s get while the gettings good.”

Mac definitely agrees with that and keeps an eye out at the door in case anyone comes to check on them. 

“What do you mean ‘two days?’” Jack hisses. “Patty, we missed the damn indoc session this morning and as punishment they’re doing some purification ritual tomorrow and then we have to ‘offer ourselves’ for something or other. I don’t care about old Mr. Arms Dealer. You got the intel, get us out.”

There are a few starts and stops from Jack, but no further full thoughts. Mac turns back to Jack in time to see him glaring daggers at a dark phone screen.

“She hung up on you didn’t she?” Mac asks.

Jack snorts. “They’re not coming until day after tomorrow. She wants the head honcho back here so when exfil sweeps in they can snatch his ass up too. In the meantime, we’re just supposed to keep our cover. She told me to ‘suck it up, Dalton’ about whatever shit they’re planning because she’s ‘got bigger fish to fry than my discomfort.’ I’m gonna show that damn woman some discomfort.”

Mac frowns and sighs. For most part Patty seems detached but still concerned about the wellbeing of her agents. This is atypical behavior for her and Mac wants to know why.

*****

At daybreak, an acolyte comes for them and leads them to the main hall. Every time so far that they’ve been here, they’ve sat in the back as part of their new devotee status. But this time, they’re led to the very front, right at the foot of the altar. 

“Kneel,” instructs the elder who led the tribunal yesterday. 

They kneel and a glass of water and a warm, hearty meal are placed in front of each of them. 

“You will kneel here and contemplate your transgressions against the Teachings. Your mortal impurities led you to forsake the Teachings yesterday. The food and water will serve as reminders of the impurities you have yet to conquer within yourself. You may not partake of either the food or the water until the ceremony is complete.”

“And when’s that?” Jack asks.

The elder frowns at Jack's impudence and Mac wisely adds nothing to the conversation. “Daybreak tomorrow. You are also forbidden from speech since it was speech which you two shared during your absence yesterday.”

Mac and Jack exchange looks but otherwise remain silent. It’s not particularly hot in the hall, and since they won’t be doing any physical activity, dehydration shouldn’t be a significant risk. Still, Mac’s knees already ache and there are twenty-four hours before this is over. It’s gonna suck.

*****

Judging by the sun outside the windows, they’ve been kneeling for about four hours. The warmth of the food has faded and with it the alluring smell, but Mac’s thirst is unabated. The water sits in front of him clear and inviting and Mac has to look away to avoid torturing himself. He knows that if he ignores his thirst long enough it will fade for a while, and right now he’ll take any sort of reprieve he can get. 

His knees burn and hips ache. Pain radiates down his shins and up through his thighs into his lower back. He tries not to think how badly bruised their knees will be but he can’t get the thought of pressure sores out of his mind. Regardless of how badly the rest of this goes, Mac plans to take at least a week off from work, maybe two.

*****

Somewhere in early afternoon, they’re given a break. Being new and still battling their mortal impurities, their minders grant them a trip to the restroom. Apparently, no one expects them to hold it all day since they’re so pathetic. Mac nearly smiles thinking how naive they are. He’s defused bombs in protective suits in the scorching heat of Afghanistan while trying to hold in three cups of coffee for hours at a time. This is hardly a challenge since he’s mildly dehydrated. Nevertheless, he’s grateful for the chance to move and stretch his legs.

Mac slowly extricates himself from the floor, his knees and hips popping as he moves. His muscles twitch and spasm as he hobbles — and it’s well and truly hobbling now — his body protesting its prolonged abuse. 

But all too soon they’re both back in their places, knelt in front of a plate of food and a glass of water, and Mac just wants to be done. He hates this stupid cult, and he hates Patty, and he hates hand-painted and glazed ceramic tile floors, and but mostly he just wants to eat and stretch out. 

He looks out the window again but the sun has barely dipped below the top of the window on the other side of the hall. Daybreak is a long ways off.

*****

The Light Immersion gathering commences as scheduled. Mac and Jack continue to kneel silently at the front of the hall, it’s just that now they’re at one of the elder’s feet. It feels like some weird supplication, groveling almost. He hates the idea that he should be offering some sort of supplication to the equivalent of a middle management leader of a cult that was created to simply launder money. The whole thing is absurd.

This is like those idiots who claim the Earth is flat. There are numerous basic ways to prove the Earth is spherical that do not require specialized equipment but people will believe anything to avoid the scientific method. Mac feels like he’s in a room full of such people. They’ve wilfully surrendered their most basic freedoms to some old Canadian guy who used to be a short order cook at a diner in Quebec until he got into selling rifles to ISIS from his compound in the outskirts of Paris. 

Beside him Jack’s stomach rumbles loudly and Mac’s rumbles as if in response. Another time it would be comical but Mac’s blood sugar is too low to find any of this amusing. Instead he tries to readjust to ease the cramps in his left leg but the pain that shoots up from his right knee is agony and he’s forced to relax back into the cramps. For now, it seems there might be no way out of this.

*****

Long after the sun goes down and the noises in the compound quiet for the night, Mac and Jack remain kneeling on the floor of the hall. The light from the oil lamp that always burns is the only thing that illuminates the hall. The flame makes the shadows dance around them but it’s not enough light to keep Mac awake. 

It’s late and it’s dark and he’s physically exhausted, and now his body is cranking out the melatonin. Every blink becomes a battle between sleep and wakefulness and Mac knows it’s only a matter of time before he drops off whether or not he wants to. His only real concern are the two acolytes that watch them, each with a thin switch in their hands. It doesn’t take Mac’s staggering intellect to parse what it’s for and it’s frustrating that there’s no way Mac can keep himself awake to avoid it. 

To Mac’s surprise, though, it’s Jack that takes the first lick. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac sees Jack’s head bob down and an instant later the switch _whooshes_ through air and makes a quiet _thwip_ against the bare soles of Jack’s feet. He tenses and grunts, straightening up, and Mac tightens his fists to avoid saying or doing something that they’d both regret. 

But eventually the anger wears off and the exhaustion returns, and it’s not long before Mac gets the same treatment. It stings like hell, bright and hot against his feet. His first instinct, besides wresting the switch from his assailant, is to rub his feet. But there’s probably a punishment for that too. 

Again Mac flexes his fists and stays still.

*****

Mac has no sense of time anymore. The sun isn’t up and Mac can’t begin to tell how long has passed. His feet ache and throb from the numerous switchings, and Jack’s feet are in no better shape. His kneecaps and the skin beneath them are numb, a dull ache has set into his femurs, and his sciatic nerve sends waves of ice and fire down the sides of his hips and thighs with the slightest movement. He didn’t realize his entire back would seize up from this, but it has. After all, this is essentially a stress position and his body is trying to compensate for that stress in various ways, all of which hurt.

Slowly, and to Mac’s surprise, people begin to file into the hall. It’s still not yet light but Mac can see the deep dark of the night sky has begun to lighten. He guesses that this is the final part of the purification ceremony, the offering before the dawn of a new day. He almost doesn’t care what it takes; he just wants this to be over. 

The tribunal assembles on the altar in front of them and all at once the hall falls silent. “We are assembled here, at the precipice of a new day. New light is coming at the end of another long night. And our new devotees, Angus and Jack, are nearing the end of their purification ceremonies. All of us stumble at times, but by purging ourselves of our mortal impurities we may return to the Divine Light promised to us by the Teachings. 

“Do you, Angus, offer yourself to the Divine Light freely? To be purified and once again a beloved member of our community?”

Mac is exhausted and doesn’t even consider what this could possibly entail beyond food, drink, and sleep. “I do.”

“And do you, Jack, offer yourself to the Divine Light freely? To be purified again and once again a beloved member of our community?”

“You betcha,” Jack says.

The elder glares for a moment but continues. “Let their purification be completed.”

Mac feels almost euphoric that it’s over. He could honestly collapse right here and take a nap in front of everyone. 

But instead, an acolyte removes the plates and cups from in front of them. Mac watches the cups of water intently, imagining how a mouthful of water would feel on his tongue. He’s well and thoroughly dehydrated now. He hasn’t peed since the afternoon yesterday and he has no need to go now. Whatever this purification is needs to hurry the hell up because his body is running out of reserves. 

Someone taps Mac across the back lightly with a long stick and Mac turns to see a man, one of the laborers on the compound, holding a thin rattan cane in his hand. He’s clearly lining up his shot and panic floods Mac. Everything until now has been some weird ascetic stuff, unpleasant, potentially dangerous if someone has preexisting conditions, but not inherently violent. Now, those cryptic remarks in their intel all add up. 

Quickly, he turns to see that someone stands beside and slightly to the back of Jack as well. He, too, is squaring up with Jack’s back. Jack shoots Mac a warning look, but there’s nothing to do or say.

The first strike comes without warning. At first, Mac can’t feel anything but the impact. It’s like a _thud_ that slowly turns into a bright stinging sensation. It’s definitely nothing that’s going to leave lasting injury, not with only ten or fifteen strokes, but Mac can already tell that his skin won’t withstand this until daybreak, not without splitting.

By twenty Mac’s back is a mass of stinging, burning, red hot pain. Each strike makes the whole mess flare bright and ugly, and Mac has to focus on balancing to avoid falling over. 

And oddly, despite Mac’s total lack of investment in the cult’s community, culture, or disciplinary proceedings beyond “how the hell do I get out of here,” the humiliation is truly real. Mac finds that he does in fact care how well he handles the punishment. The idea of crying out, or god forbid crying, in front of this group fills him with anxious dread.

He bites his lower lip and grips his hands tighter together knowing that nothing he does will stop this. It’s a helpless feeling, and he remembers being told not to let that helplessness seep into his mind during his training at SERE. Mac’s not sure how that’s supposed to work when someone is caning you and your entire back feels like it’s being peeled with a flensing knife, but he tries.

The fact that Mac has no idea when the caning will end, or rather no idea how many strokes it’ll take to get to daybreak, is as agonizing as the caning itself. Is daybreak first light? Sunrise? Full daylight? Mac calculates that it could vary anywhere between five and nearly thirty minutes. 

After a while, long after Mac has lost count, the pain engulfs Mac. His back, his chest, his abs, legs — all of him — everything aches. He hopes they’re getting close. His legs are beginning to feel like jello and his vision is getting a little spotty around the edges. He desperately does not want to faint because, possible head injuries notwithstanding, the appearance of failure terrifies Mac in ways that he can’t identify, the fear of possible future “purifications” notwithstanding. 

He can hear Pena’s voice in his head reminding him that it’s emotions that will get him killed. Mac tries to focus on the bomb in front of him — he slows his breathing to slow his racing heart. He breathes fully and deeply to reoxygenate himself which helps a little with his still graying vision. And to a degree, it seems to help. A small degree.

But there’s nothing Mac can do to change his blood pressure which is what will eventually put him on his ass. And as the pain mounts higher than Mac ever realized was possible, there’s nothing he can do to stop the way his body shakes. His nose is running forcing him to breathe through his mouth and tears well up in his eyes. He desperately doesn’t want to cry, he feels six years old all over again trying not to cry over a skinned knee because Dad will just call him a “cry baby.” But instead of Dad, it’s Jack he’s scared of disappointing. Even if Jack can’t see his face, the disapproval of the tribunal would be enough to tell him that Mac’s not handling it, and his red eyes would give it away after that fact. 

He wants to scream, his chest bursting with the need to cry out in anguish. Mac bites down hard to stifle the sounds that threaten to disclose his distress to the world. But despite his best intentions, Mac knows that if this goes on much longer there’s nothing he’ll be able to do to maintain his dignity. He’ll fail and then Jack will know and he doesn’t think he can live with that. 

Mac begins to wonder if they’ve lost count because this seems to be drawing on into eternity. He tries to tell himself that surely, even with the loosest most ridiculous definition of daybreak, they’ve got to be nearing the end. And they can’t cane him forever. Surely it’ll stop soon. Surely they’re almost there. Just one more. Just one more. Just…

The gray around the edges of his vision starts to close in again and this time Mac is helpless to fight it. He goes with the fall, breaking his fall with his hands out to the side and then toppling limply to the floor.

*****

Mac can feel someone touching his back and it _hurts._ He tries to move but his body still feels out of his control. He knows this feeling because he’s been here before — he fainted.

His vision is still dark and he can hear, but it’s garbled, sort of like adults on the Charlie Brown show. He knows that slowly everything will come back, that he’ll regain control of his body, but being patient is nearly impossible because whatever they’re doing to his back hurts so much.

Somewhere nearby someone groans and Mac knows without looking that it’s Jack. Between the two of them there’s been enough groaning over the years that it’s as distinctive as a fingerprint to Mac. For a brief moment Mac wonders why Jack is groaning, Mac’s the one in pain. But dimly Mac begins to remember the events prior to this and knows that Jack has to be hurting as much as he is. 

The person behind Mac wrings out their rag in a bowl and then begins dabbing again at his wounds. He’s already pissed that this has happened, that Patty let it happen and thought it a worthy sacrifice to make in order to catch their guy. But now these people, who are absolutely out of touch with reality, are trying to tend to Mac’s wounds like they care? Like they’re not the ones who did this to them in the first place. 

Anger bubbles up inside Mac but he doesn’t have the energy to be properly mad. He opens his eyes to scope out the room, entertaining a brief notion that he might somehow stop them from touching him or that he and Jack might fight their way out of the compound, but the moment light hits his eyes his head throbs like he’s got a hangover, which essentially he does. Mac blinks, opening his eyes only little bits at a time, and searches for Jack. 

He’s laid out on another cot with some nameless acolyte giving him the same treatment Mac is getting. Just seeing Jack’s injuries makes Mac’s stomach turn. They’re gonna be out of commission for a while which means that they’re stuck until exfil.

*****

Despite the pain that permeates every inch of his body, sleep comes relatively easy once the acolytes are done tending their wounds. But despite his exhaustion, he’s roused from his much needed sleep to pee after only an hour.

Mac stumbles to the bathroom while leaning against the wall for support. Every step sends pain through his entire skeleton and his muscles burn and throb and cramp with each step. But the worst are the soles of his feet. He hasn’t looked at them yet, but he can feel the thin lines that crisscross his skin, each one swollen and tender as he steps on them.

When he makes his way back, Jack’s still asleep and Mac takes a moment to look him over. They’re both still fully clothed but can see the swelling of Jack’s back through his cornflower blue devotees’ shirt. Little pink lines have started to seep into the fabric and Mac suspects the swelling is causing the skin to weep; he worries that before it gets better, Jack’s skin might split altogether. 

Jack’s feet are much like Mac imagines his own look. Red welts and thin cuts crisscross the soles of his feet. It’s going to be at least a week before either of them can walk properly. 

Carefully, Mac sits down on his cot and pulls up the matching cornflower blue pants. His knees are completely black and they’re swollen up the size of a grapefruit. He’s honestly surprised he could bend them enough to walk to the bathroom and back again. 

His back twinges again and it makes his stomach roll. Quickly, he lowers the legs of his pants and lies back down. Every inch of his body burns from overexertion but Mac can’t ever remember hurting this much, not even in boot camp. 

There’s a glass of sugar water on the floor. He doesn’t care about drinking it because he feels so bad, but he knows that he’ll never recover if he doesn’t. Carefully, Mac blindly reaches for the cup and manages to swallow a couple of mouthfuls of the cloying liquid before falling back asleep.

*****

By the time someone comes to rouse them for the afternoon Light Immersion, Mac and Jack have finally managed to eat a light meal consisting of what was essentially chicken noodle soup. It’s a great comfort food and after so long without, it’s potentially the tastiest thing Mac’s ever consumed. 

But on their slow and labored walk to the hall, the soup sloshes uncomfortably in Mac’s stomach. His shirt has begun sticking to his back and he knows without asking that his back is also weeping, especially if the pain is any indication. But it’s hardly the worst of it; heck, he’s not sure if there is a worst. Everything throbs and burns and aches in concert. It’s utterly nauseating and Mac has to swallow compulsively to keep everything down. He can’t afford to miss another meeting, especially if Patty decides to take her time with the exfil.

Mac mentally checks out during the Light Immersion. He’s too tired to care. All he can think about is lying back down after the meeting is over. But instead, he and Jack are given their afternoon duty stations like it’s business as usual, like they’re not barely able to keep their feet. 

Mac staggers to the workshop to begin repairs on a sewing machine that’s not working. It’s menial work, but at least he didn’t get garden duty like Jack. He can’t imagine hauling produce in the heat like this.

*****

By lights out Mac and Jack can barely keep their feet at all. If Mac thought the morning was bad, this evening is ten times worse. His back is unrelenting agony now, nearly as bad as the caning itself, and he can feel the places where blood has seeped into his shirt. 

He threw up lunch about an hour before dinner, but so far has managed to keep down the second bowl of soup. He’s glad that they didn’t try to make him eat the dinner everyone else had or he wouldn’t have gotten more than a few bites in. 

Jack threw up his lunch and dinner. The heavy labor and hot sun were clearly more than he could handle, and Jack had to be helped into the dining hall by two of the other acolytes. But as soon as they helped him out of the dining hall, Jack lost his dinner. Mac knows that they both need hospital care, not just sugar water and soup. 

He helps Jack peel off his shirt and pants, leaving him in his underwear, which is also the same weird shade of blue, and Jack gives Mac a hand with his shirt. Jack sits on the cot and shakes, his body pushed to its absolute limits. Mac plans to coax more water into him, this time with salt that Mac pilfered from dinner, but only after he’s tended Jack’s wounds. 

It wasn’t easy, but Mac also managed to lift some things from the workshop — two alcohol soaked rags that he wrapped in plastic so they didn’t dry out and a small tube of vaseline that they can use to keep their open wounds from drying out. Hopefully if they sterilize the wounds first, the vaseline will act as a protectant on their wounds instead of trapping the pathogens against their skin. It’s a bit of a gamble but given that exfil is now past due this shouldn’t have to be a long term solution. 

Mac sits on the cot behind Jack and starts to clean him up. Jack gasps and jerks away when the alcohol touches his skin. Mac grabs him by the shoulder to hold him in place but Mac’s too weak and Jack’s too exhausted not to fight.

“Try lying down,” Mac says.

While Mac carefully drags his cot next to Jack’s and sits on it, Jack shakily eases himself to the cot. Mac leans over him but it’s hard because the raw skin on his back feels like it’s splitting with even the slightest angle. Still, of the two of them, Mac’s the one that’s doing the best. He’s honestly worried that if exfil doesn’t come soon Jack will need emergency care and they’re in no shape to make an escape. The most he can do is try to prevent infection.

Tentatively he begins wiping again, and under his hands Jack’s shaking is replaced by writhing. 

“Mac,” he cries softly, “You gotta stop. Please.”

Mac wants to, but Jack’s in no position to make this sort of choice right now. “This won’t take long. You just gotta let me, Jack. I know it hurts. Just try to breathe.”

Jack twists away from every touch and Mac has to bite his lip to keep from crying. The fact that they’re going to trade places once Jack’s recovered doesn’t even matter. Listening to Jack cry, not sniffle or groan or swear but outright cry, is almost more than Mac can bear. 

It’s a quick process. He can’t do more than wipe down the damaged skin, some of which is definitely beginning to split apart, and cover it with a light coating of their precious petroleum jelly. When he’s done, Mac just sits there, his hand on Jack’s shoulder offering quiet support. 

Slowly, Jack’s breathing slows and his cries become sniffles, and gingerly, he rolls to his side. “That sucked.”

Mac laughs and nods. “Yeah, it did. You think you can do my back?”

Jack shakes his head. “Dude, you have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Mac’s pretty sure that he’s got the general gist of it after watching Jack, but there’s no point in bringing that up. “Yeah, but I’m still not convinced Patty’s sending exfil when she promised. Her goal is to capture the senior cleric and we haven’t seen anyone come into the compound all day. If he doesn’t show, neither will she. We can’t risk not treating our wounds.”

Jack sighs quietly and sags into the cot. “I know. I keep turning it over in my head. Fucking pisses me off.”

“Me too,” Mac agrees.

“Alright, well let’s do this shit so we can get some shut eye,” Jack says.

Mac can tell he’s steeling himself to the task but it's hard when Jack’s body hasn’t stopped shaking. He helps Jack up on the cot and passes over the vaseline and clean rag. 

Mac knows Jack doesn’t have the energy to deal much more than twitching, so he grips the edges of the cot to keep still. But Mac realizes that’s gonna be a tall order the moment the rag touches him. It’s like every nerve in the tri-state area is suddenly turned up to eleven. It burns like hot grease or bare feet on asphalt in the middle of summer. 

Instantly, his eyes begin to water and it’s everything he can do not to scream. In moments, he’s gasping like Jack had, his breath loud and grating from the snot that comes with the crying. Jack meticulously scrubs every square inch. He rests his left hand on Mac’s lower back and rubs circles with his thumb. 

When Jack’s finally done, Mac lays trembling on the cot. He feels like he’s in shock, like the pain, which is only starting to abate since they have no way to rinse the alcohol, is overwhelming everything, leaving him able only to lay there and tremble.

It’s an awful nauseating feeling but Mac knows that he can’t afford to lose another meal so he breathes slow and steady and swallows often. As the minutes pass, the feeling of shock begins to ebb and Mac wipes his eyes. 

“That sucked,” Mac says in a parody of Jack’s earlier observation.

Jack smiles weakly and chuckles. “Oh, yeah. Big time. We done now?” 

Mac drags himself up to sitting. “We probably oughta check our knees and feet.”

Mac knows that his own knees are now showing pressure sores where the skin has started to degrade. Jack’s can’t be any better. Plus walking around with open cuts on their feet isn’t safe either, especially not for Jack who spent several hours in the large garden before dinner.

They roll their pants legs up and suffer a few quick swipes of the alcohol rags across their knees — each of them treating the other — before propping up feet for inspection. Mac volunteers to go first because Jack’s looking like he doesn’t have a lot left in him. 

It’s unreal how much it hurts. It’s different, and thankfully less than his back, but it’s still hard to hold still and stay quiet while Jack scrubs the dirt off his feet with the alcohol damp rag.

It’s easier to recover from the pain this time and he starts on Jack’s feet. They’re brown with dirt, a lot of it caked in the tiny lacerations that cross the bottoms of his feet. Mac has to dig in, scraping through each one to clear the debris. Tears drip down Jack’s face and he chokes on his sobs as he tries to be quiet. Mac’s torn between being quick and being thorough, and though it kills him, he opts for thorough. 

His trust in Patty is gone. She said one thing and did another, and Mac doesn’t trust her not to repeat that. He has to make sure Jack can survive this because Mac knows that there might not be anyone else to make sure of that. 

By the time he’s done, Jack’s shaking again, head to toe. It’s agony, Mac’s own shaking only recently abated, but he takes some of Jack’s weight as he carefully helps Jack to lie down on the cot. He grabs a cup with a little water, sprinkles a little of his pilfered salt into it, and tilts Jack’s head up enough for him to drink.

“You’re pretty severely dehydrated.. It’s not much and it probably tastes like crap, but this should help with that and your sodium levels. I know it feels awful to put anything on your stomach but you’ve got to try,” Mac coaxes. 

Jack obliges and drinks as much as Mac makes him, though he’s clearly not happy about it. Mac downs the rest of the glass, grimacing as he does, and then lies down on his own cot. He can’t remember a time when he was this exhausted. He knows they’ll have to get up with the sunrise to begin work again but he’s not sure Jack can do it. 

He closes his eyes and hopes that Patty hurries the hell up.

*****

Exfil is a surprisingly quiet affair. Mac expected a massive raid — flashbangs, smoke grenades, the tramp of booted feet in the courtyard. But it’s a quick snatch and grab. By the time he’s helped to the front gate, which was quietly pried open, and Jack’s been carried, the arms dealer turned senior cleric is already cuffed in the back of the transport vehicle.

“We need immediate medical care,” one of the men calls to the driver. They speed away towards help and Mac’s sighs in relief that they’re finally free.

*****

It’s nothing new to find himself sharing a medical bay with Jack. At this point Mac figures that keeping them in line of sight of one another is probably DSX SOP. There’s probably a page in a manual somewhere about it. 

But in any case, they’re both relegated to DXS medical for at least another few days. Mac isn’t exactly enthused about it, but then again Dr. Weaver has them on the good stuff and it makes Mac’s brain fuzzy enough that lying around all day with nothing to do doesn’t really matter, although it doesn’t stop him from trying to think.

Mac suspects that he’s on the good stuff because Jack’s on the good stuff. And Jack’s on the good stuff because it keeps him from going upstairs to find Director Thornton and murder her in her office. So their pain management might not be entirely ethical, but Mac doesn’t feel like complaining because even with IV pain meds he’s still getting breakthrough pain that makes him nauseated and shaky all over again.

Of course his new found disdain for Patty isn’t the only thing that Mac’s been thinking about in his moments of wakefulness. The whole weird ceremony has got Mac tied up in knots. He keeps thinking about the fact that he fainted, and he wonders why he cared at all about what those people thought, why he felt anything more about the situation than anger and the need to escape.

He waits until after breakfast has been served and their bandages have been changed before bringing it up.

“Hey, Jack?”

Jack turns his head to look at Mac. “What’s up?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Jack says. “What’s on your mind?”

“When they caned us, did you, I don’t know, feel weird about it?” Mac might be high on morphine but he hasn’t completely lost all his inhibitions when it comes to his emotions.

“Well it hurt like hell if that’s what you mean,” Jack says. 

“No, I mean like emotions. Did it feel, I don’t know-”

“I was scared,” Jack says quietly. “No two ways about that.”

Mac nods. That’s a pretty normal reaction, but not really what he was thinking. He doesn’t know how to communicate that without being more humiliated than he already is. It’s embarrassing that he even cared about their opinion of him in the first place. 

“That’s not what you meant. What’s going on inside your head, Mac?” Jack presses.

Mac looks down. “I don’t know. When it was happening I felt humiliated, like I had to be strong or everyone would see my weakness. Of course then I fainted which sorta made it a moot point. I just, I wanted to ask…”

“You wanted to know if I felt the same,” Jack finishes. “Not exactly. I didn’t want them seeing me as weak because I was pissed about the whole thing and I wanted to stick it to them, wanted them to see that I was stronger than their stupid cleansing rituals or whatever. Course then I fainted in the garden so helluva a lot of good that did.”

They both zone out for a bit, the morphine making it easy to check out on whatever stray thought floats through their minds. So it’s a little while later before Mac makes it back around to the conversation. 

“Is it weird?” Mac asks.

Jack turns his head towards Mac. “Is what weird?”

Mac realizes that he sort of started talking in the middle of his train of thought and he blames the morphine. “Is it weird that I cared what they thought?”

Jack shakes his head. “Nah. That’s how people work. Besides, the whole thing is a public ceremony for a reason. It’s supposed to be humiliating.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Mac murmurs. 

“Look we both cried like little babies back there and we both passed out and lost our lunches, some of us lost our dinners, too. Ain’t neither one of us walk out there with an ounce of dignity. It’s just one of them things. Don’t make it something it ain’t. It sucked, it was humiliating, we were scared, it hurt like hell, and now we’re home. Stop overthinking everything.”

Mac huffs a laugh and nods. “Yeah, alright.”

“You’re still overthinking it,” Jack accuses after a moment.

“No, I’m not,” Mac says immediately.

Jack narrows his eyes. “You’re still embarrassed. You think, what? That you’re an embarrassment?”

Fuck, Mac did not wanna get this deep into it but apparently that’s what’s happening. “Sorta? I mean, I was weak.”

“And I was at some point stronger than you? Did you miss the part where you took care of me? You walked out of there. I’m pretty sure Jacobson and Marcus carried me out of there.”

That’s a… good point, one that Mac hadn’t quite realized. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Yeah, I know I’m right. Now hush. It’s morning naptime,” Jack declares and rearranges himself on the pile of pillows he’s created so that he can comfortably lie on his chest for the time being. 

Mac adjusts the pillow between his knees and carefully pulls the covers tighter. They’re both gonna be sporting some less than visible scars from this, Mac more than Jack it seems. But for the moment Mac doesn’t really care. As long as he and Jack are on the same page, the rest is just details, and for the life of him, Mac can’t even remember why he was so worried about it. He closes his eyes and sleeps.


End file.
